


brotherhood of the traveling jorts (there is no traveling)

by kingsoftheimpossible



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Christmas, Curses, jorts, not exactly sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-23 21:57:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: Anyway, the whole idea of Secret Santa is stupid, because there’s no such thing as a secret when Mitch Marner is involved.





	brotherhood of the traveling jorts (there is no traveling)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheapLemonIceLolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapLemonIceLolly/gifts).



> hiii!!! this is Something. i kind of did a mashup of two prompts, hope it's okay and hope you like it! it's a littlelot silly. it's also a littlelot late, despite my best efforts. rip.
> 
> thanks to chloe and nailbeds for looking this over while it was in the works. no one proofread it because i'm a nightmare, so any mistakes/garbage are all mine.

“You can’t give someone a gift card for Secret Santa.”

_Why do you do this to yourself, Auston? Why do you always ask William Nylander for help? When has he ever been anything but a blonde, Swedish, firm-assed thorn in your side?_

“It’s practical,” Auston defends through gritted teeth, scrolling through the Amazon gift card designs. Surely there’s a hockey-related one, or one with like... babies? Leo has a baby. He’d probably like a gift card with a baby on it, right? A hockey-playing baby. Maybe one of those twitter edits of Mitch’s face on a baby.

He’s getting off-track.

“Practical,” Auston repeats. “The spending limit is one hundred bucks. What can you even get someone for a hundred bucks in Canada?”

“Oh,” Willie says, looking at Auston as if he’s just seen him for the first time. “You’re boring.”

Which is really fucking rich coming from someone who has good hair in the place of a personality, but Auston refrains from saying so. Because he’s a good fucking person. And it’s fucking Christmas.

He says, “That’s not helpful,” instead, and goes back to Googling _very very very last minute secret santa gift ideas_.

* * *

 

In the end, he goes with his initial instinct, but it’s too late to get a custom gift card mailed out so he just emails an electronic one to Leo before the team party and writes _Merry Christmas! Check your email_ on a card he picked out at a gas station. There’s a dog on the front. Who doesn’t love dogs in Christmas hats. Leo’s not a fucking sociopath.

Anyway, the whole idea of Secret Santa is stupid, because there’s no such thing as a secret when Mitch Marner is involved. Literally moments after they’d drawn names in the locker room, Mitch had sidled over, subtle as a beacon, and asked if Auston had any food allergies. The weeks since have been filled with vague questions and whispered conversations between Mitch and Willie that cut off as soon as Auston gets within earshot. He’d worry they were talking shit about him, but Willie’s more of a Say It Loudly To Your Face In Front Of Everyone guy, and Mitch is... Mitch.

So after Leo picks his card out of the pile and immediately guesses (correctly) that it came from Auston, Auston goes up and picks the present with his own name on it. The wrapping is nice- not professional, but that’s made up for by the sheer amount of effort put into it. Even if Mitch weren’t the most transparent person in the world, Auston probably could’ve guessed who it was from just from the amount of _how to wrap presents_ Youtube videos that clearly went into the construction of this curled-ribbon masterpiece.

He can practically feel Mitch’s eyes burning into his back as he unwraps it at the table and opens the box inside to pull out... something.

“What-” he starts, but before he can even finish the question, Mitch bursts out- “Jorts!”

Carrick says, “Nice one, man,” right as Naz hisses, “He’s supposed to guess who it’s from!”, but Auston ignores them, pulling the jorts out and unfolding them.

They’re black, frayed at the knees. Not something Auston wouldn’t wear. Just some fucking jorts.

“Gonna go ahead and guess these came from Mitch,” Auston says, holding them up so everyone can see, “since he asked about my inseam last week.”

A few guys groan and roll their eyes but Mitch is beaming. “Try them on! I got them off Etsy.”

 _Why?_ Auston wants to ask, but doesn’t. _Just order them from the fucking Gap like everyone else_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. He’s getting better at not- not being an asshole, honestly, about the way Mitch does and _overdoes_ things sometimes.

It’s just Mitch, Auston’s learned. Whole heart in, from hockey to jorts.

“I’ll let you know how they fit,” he promises, folding them back not quite as neatly as they came, but not terribly.

* * *

 

They fit really fucking well, actually. It’s almost frustrating, how well Mitch did.

But, Auston reminds himself for the billionth time, that’s just Mitch.

He throws on a sweater and snaps a few pictures, posts one to Instagram with a thumbs up emoji and tags Mitch in it. Ten articles about the Leafs Secret Santa party already blew up online, so he’s pretty sure at least some people will make the connection. And it seems like Mitch would like that, everyone knowing he aced something, knowing he impressed Auston.

Sure enough, he gets a text barely five minutes later with a ton of exclamation points.

* * *

 

Theoretical Google searches, if Auston’s phone were within reach from where he’s sprawled on the rug:

Is it possible for jorts to fit _too_ well?

Like, so well they won’t come off.

So well they make you lightheaded and you pass out in your own living room?

 _Just asking for a friend,_ Auston thinks blandly, shivering as he comes to. The lighting through the windows is different, street lights instead of sun, like he’s been out for hours. Not great.

His head spins when he tries to sit up, but he does, eventually, make it back to his bed, even thinks to grab his phone from the coffee table. His hands feel clammy and weak when he struggles with the comforter (a comforter...he’s in the fucking NHL and he can’t even pull back his own blankets).

Something, probably, is a little bit wrong. He should probably call his mom, but that seems scary, because this is probably nothing, but what if it’s something. Calling in the parents seems more likely to turn it into something, somehow. Then again, he can’t even keep his eyes focused, so it’s possible he’s not thinking clearly.

Clearly or not, no parents, yet. He just needs-

It’s the strangest feeling, like his jorts constrict a little, like they’re nudging him. It happens twice, _nudge nudge_ , and Auston blinks down at where he’d be able to see them if his legs weren’t under a pile of bedding.

He can take a hint, whatever kind of delusion it is. He texts Mitch.

* * *

 

About an hour later, there’s a knock at the front door, muted and echoey from where Auston’s shaking in his bed. He can’t actually hear Mitch scrabbling with the key, but he’s heard it enough times that he can imagine. Mitch pokes his head into Auston’s room and his nose immediately scrunches up. He has the nerve to say, “Ugh, you reek,” as if Auston isn’t fucking dying in front of him.

Auston attempts to communicate _I’ve been sweating out all of the fluid in my body and I can’t even walk to the shower_ using only his eyes, but Mitch is already stepping in close, reaching out like he’s going to check for a fever ( _no need to check, I can promise you I’m running over 100, whatever that translates to in Canadian fevers._ )

The relief is instantaneous. Literally the moment Mitch’s hand touches his forehead, Auston’s entire body relaxes. Everything hurts, muscles sore from being locked up so long, but it’s a hurt that’s better than the previous tension, almost better than just feeling good. He exhales shakily, letting his eyes close, and the bed dips where Mitch sits beside him.

“What happened?” Mitch asks, taking his hand away, and it’s like- like someone tearing your jacket off in the middle of winter. Auston starts shaking again, jaw clenching against the way his teeth start to chatter. Mitch makes a small, distressed sound, hopping up from the bed and tearing through Auston’s closets like a tornado.

Auston watches with growing irritation as all his shit gets thrown everywhere, until he finally demands, “What are you _doing_?” His voice is hoarse, but loud enough for Mitch to pause and look back at him.

“More blankets? Or should- do we need less blankets?” Mitch is shifting from foot to foot like he can’t stand still long enough to have a rational conversation. “What do we do for a fever?” He stops short, eyes bugging a little. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

“If you,” Auston rasps, careful to make his voice as clear as possible, “even think about calling an ambulance, I will throw you out the fucking window.”

Mitch grumbles something along the lines of _like to see you try_  but Auston lets it slide because he can barely hold his head up off the pillow. He’s just so fucking cold, and tired, and-

“Ha!” Mitch dumps approximately one metric fucking ton of blankets on him. It doesn’t warm Auston up nearly as much as Mitch’s hand brushing his arm as he straightens them all out. But then Mitch is buzzing out of the room to go grab Gatorade and water, and Auston’s frozen half to death again.

His jorts constrict in a way that feels pointedly displeased.

Then again, he has a fever and his brain is swollen and he’s probably dying, or whatever, so fuck off, maybe.

* * *

 

Mitch bustles back in not long after and Auston wills him with all of his mental power to just sit the fuck down. Preferably on the bed, preferably near Auston, preferably after turning the tv on. And maybe the jorts are magic, because Mitch does all that, just like Auston wants. The second their shoulders touch, Auston breathes a sigh of relief.

His jorts sort of purr, which is interesting and does weird confusing shit to his junk. God, he's fucking tired.

"How you holdin' up, big guy?" Mitch asks, distracted a little by whatever's on the television. It looks like a cooking show, but what does Auston know. He thinks his jorts are communicating with him.

"A little better," he rasps anyway. "Still cold." Cold everywhere Mitch isn't touching him, but who needs to be specific?

Mitch pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, and it's oddly shiny and distracting. Actually, his whole-

"Why are you dressed up?" Auston demands, taking in Mitch's white button-up for the first time. They've been hip to hip on the bed long enough for some of Auston's concenrtration to trickle back, and Mitch is dressed up, pressed and polished, even his hair combed into something that would've been artful before he started panicking and throwing blankets around Auston's room.

"Just a party, it was nothing." Mitch is already sliding off the bed, tugging thoughtlessly at where his starched sleeves brush his wrists. Auston worries about Mitch's wrists sometimes. It's ridiculous, but they're so thin, or maybe- delicate? Not that he'd ever say.

Halfway across the room, Mitch is fiddling with his sleeves and pushing them up to his elbows, ruining his chance of going anywhere and looking half put-together for once. Auston trembles violently, Mitch's absence already running through him like an ice bath. "Where are you going?" he snipes, more petulant than he'd like.

"Turning on the shower," Mitch calls, already bumping around Auston's en suite. "Maybe the hot water will help?"

 _Anything_ , Auston thinks desperately as another tremor runs up his spine and lodges somewhere chilly in the base of his brain. _God, anything_.

The jorts pulse, a bossy little reminder of Auston fumbling uselessly while trying to pull them off earlier. _Ah, hm._

Mitch sticks his head out of the bathroom a minute later, waving Auston over. Auston's entire body shakes, pointedly, and Mitch mumbles _oh shit, yeah_ before hurrying over to help him out of the bed.

When Auston slings his legs over the side and the covers fall back, Mitch hesitates, hands hovering awkwardly by Auston's shoulders as he blinks down at the jorts. He shakes himself out of whatever it is and helps Auston up, and Auston isn't stupid enough to think any amount of hot water will feel better than Mitch's fingers wrapped around his biceps, but let him dream.

There's steam billowing out of the shower, and they reach a sort of impasse when Mitch goes to step back and leave Auston alone in the bathroom and Auston immediately swoons like a fucking Victorian. Mitch yelps and grabs him again, and Auston sucks it up and says, "You're gonna have to stay. I can't fucking-"

"Yeah," Mitch cuts in, so fucking Mitch. "Yeah, sure. Of course. Do you need help taking-"

"They won't come off," Auston explains plaintively, glaring down at the jorts. They seem to do the jort equivalent of glaring back by uncomfortably squeezing his balls.

"They- what?" Mitch asks, then seems to decide Auston is useless and he doesn't need an answer, because he quickly strips Auston's sweater over his head and then sets to work on the button and zipper of the jorts.

It doesn't, uhhh, how one might say, _fucking work_ , and Auston tries not to be smug about it, since he is, after all, the one being fucked over.

He lets Mitch do his damndest, watching his eyebrows slowly creep closer together and his tongue poke out the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. Mitch whispers _what the fuck_ under his breath and just starts tugging the jorts down, like he intends to pull them off fully intact.

Which, you know, for regular jorts- not a bad plan. For whatever weird sentient jorts Mitch gave him for Christmas, go fuck yourself. If anything, they squeeze tighter, painfully so until Auston grunts and pushes Mitch's hands away, which hurts in its own way.

Mitch steps back, defeated, and Auston shrugs, tired, tired, tired and cold again. He wobbles until Mitch steadies him with a hand on his hip, and the jorts seem appeased, melting back to a comfortable size.

"I guess we leave them on?" Mitch says, staring down more at Auston's bare stomach than at the jorts, but that's just Mitch.

"Guess so." Auston leans against the warm glass door of the shower while Mitch strips. It's nothing he hasn't seen five hundred times, but Mitch is jittery and nervous, fingers slipping off the buttons of his shirt before he finally slides it off. His pants go a bit easier, and then he's ushering Auston into the shower like a fucking nursemaid.

Auston's shower isn't as big as it will be once he's signed a real contract, but there's a bench he sinks onto greatfully, and the air inside is warm enough to make him pleasantly lightheaded while Mitch fiddles with the knobs.

Mitch is- maybe scrawny isn't the right word anymore, but Auston still feels nervous sometimes when he sees Mitch naked like this. Or not- not like _this._ because Mitch has never been naked with Auston outside of a hockey context, but-

Auston leans his head back against the warm tile and watches the water run down Mitch's pale back, watches it fuck up what was left of his nice hairdo. Wonders what party Mitch is missing, if he regrets it, or if getting to put Auston in the shower and cover him with blankets was worth it for him, because it's Mitch.

Mitch turns to find Auston staring at him, and his whole face flushes. Auston has the good grace to pretend it's from the steam.

"Any better?" Mitch asks, eyes darting over Auston's body too quickly to really take much in.

"It's warm," is about all Auston can say, because it is, but he has a funny feeling his insides are still going to be frigid until Mitch is touching him. It's quiet after, just the sound of the water beating down, and Mitch hovering awkwardly just under the spray and not anywhere near enough to Auston.

Mitch clears his throat and says, "You really did stink."

Auston cracks an eye open to give him an unimpressed look. "I had a fever, asshole. I passed out in the fucking living room and sweated in these stupid jorts for four hours."

Sometimes Auston doesn't mean to be a jerk, and sometimes he does. Mitch's body does a little twitch at the jorts comment, and Auston remembers Mitch's grinning face when Auston unwrapped them in front of everyone.

Auston doesn't want to let that sit too long, because Mitch did give up a fun night out to come stand naked in Auston's shower. "Will you pass me my shampoo? The least I can do is not smell like a jockstrap, right?" He tries a smile that feels all wrong with how miserable his body still is, but Mitch brightens marginally.

He doesn't hand the shampoo over, though, just squirts too much into his own hand before using the other to tip Auston's head forward gently into the spray. It feels almost unbearably fucking good when Mitch starts massaging the shampoo into Auston's hair, fingertips rubbing soft over his scalp. Auston wants to fall asleep, curl up in this shower and never leave, even if the water turned to snow, so long as Mitch's hands stay in his hair.

 _You don't have to_ , he thinks, and a little meaner, _You always fucking embarrass yourself. Marnz_ , but doesn't say either, because if he opens his mouth any noise that comes out will be more embarrassing than anything Mitch has ever done.

Even when the touches turn more _caress_ than _clean_ , Auston lets it go on. He'd have to be really fucking stupid to miss the way Mitch is awkwardly trying to angle his hips away, as if that in itself isn't suspicious, but Auston doesn't look up, doesn't mention it. He just lets Mitch do what he wants, as long as he wants, threading his fingers through Auston's wet hair over and over until Auston's nearly asleep where he sits.

It has to stop, because hot water isn't a limitless commodity. Mitch turns the knobs off quickly, leaving Auston to sit in the rapidly-cooling shower while he goes to fetch towels.

Auston dries himself the best he can, but soaked jorts are soaked jorts. They cling and chafe and chill in the air, and a shower seems retroactively like a stupider idea every second Mitch doesn't have his hands on him.

Mitch gets Auston a pair of sweats to put on over the wet jorts, and then slides another pair on himself. They're loose, and he has to knot them so tight it seems like the string might snap, but at least he's not back in his now-wrinkled dress pants. He carries an extra towel back to the bed with them, puts it down before depositing Auston, and Auston thinks, _Smart_ , with a fond, bemused twist.

Auston doesn't even know what time it is, just that he's exhausted, and he wants to sleep. He huffs a sigh of relief when Mitch settles back on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. Maybe if he just rests, he'll wake up and everything will be fixed- a strange feverdream he can forget. He's tired enough to allow Mitch to rest his cheek on top of his head, enough to let the radiating warmth of Mitch beside him send him into a near coma, slipping into pleasant, dreamless sleep that he'd pay money for any day.

* * *

 

Auston isn't sure what wakes him, though he'd place a bet on the sheer discomfort of trying to sleep in damp jorts. He thinks about saying _moist jorts_ out loud, just to see the look on Mitch's face- but Mitch is asleep, head slid down to Auston's shoulder, lips parted just enough for him to breathe distractingly against Auston's throat. Auston must tense or make some noise, because Mitch startles awake, jolting upright. The jorts protest sleepily.

Mitch yawns, rubbing his eyes and blinking blearily around Auston’s room. “Oh,” he says, a little surprised. “Sorry I fell asleep, man.” He sits up, ruffling his hair where it already looks completely ridiculous from burrowing into Auston’s pillows. “I should go. Let you get some rest-” He’s barely made a move to leave the bed before Auston lets out a strangled, embarrassing sound to stop him.

“Just,” Auston starts, and then pauses, because just what? _Just don’t ever stop touching me?_ “Just stay.”

Mitch blinks down at him, profile illuminated by the flickering television, and Auston- Auston struggles, sometimes, with Mitch. Auston has a hard time, sometimes, with how Mitch keeps everything right on his face, right where Auston has to see it and- and know.

Mitch swallows once, painfully audible, and his voice cracks just a little when he says, “Yeah, I- yeah. Definitely. Let me just-” He pitches around, eyes jumping from Auston’s face to the walls to the door, looking for anything to do.

Mitch has a hard time with himself, sometimes, Auston knows.

“Stay,” Auston repeats.

And Mitch is Mitch, so he does.

He tries to at least scoot away a little, like a few more inches between them on the mattress will make him less transparent, and Auston just-

Auston struggles, sometimes, with Mitch, with how easy it is to see what he wants, and how easy it would be to give it to him. He's considered it before, just doing it, just to see if it would wipe the billboard-sized crush off Mitch's face.

Auston goes for broke, pulls Mitch down. Kisses him.

Mitch makes a loud, surprised noise against Auston's mouth, eyes flying wide open to stare at Auston like he's lost his mind, which- you know, maybe. His hands go to Auston's chest, which feels great, boiling water in a mug, logs on a fire, all that.

If Mitch would just get with the program and kiss him back, touch him more without him having to ask, it would be fantastic.

Auston gets a hand around the back of Mitch's neck, another on his hip, and rolls until he has Mitch beneath him, It's fucking weird, because Auston's only thought about kissing Mitch in the abstract of _what would it do to Mitch_ and not at all in the concrete of _what is this going to feel like_. It's not- it's not the shapes Auston's used to, that's for fucking sure.

Mitch missed a party, Auston reminds himself, watching through slitted eyelids when Mitch finally lets his own eyes close and his lips soften, part. Mitch had places to be, people to see, and instead he answered Auston's stupid text and stood naked in his stupid shower and covered him in stupid blankets.

The inside of Mitch's mouth isn't familiar, but it's disorienting to tongue over his teeth and think, _yeah, those are Marnz's horse teeth_ , and not think it in a mean way at all, just interested and curious.

And it feels so good not to feel bad, not fevery or sore or cold, just warm, warm, warm where he's chest to chest with Mitch, hipbones notched together like the Ikea furniture they put together when he helped Auston move in.

Mitch is loud and wiggly, shifting restlessly beneath Auston and rubbing against him, and that's- Mitch's dick, sure. _Sure_ , Auston thinks, hazy and distracted, _sure, sure, sure_. Mitch's hands are everywhere, tugging Auston every which way like he doesn't even know what he wants. He pushes at the band of Auston's sweats only to find the stupid fucking jorts, but he just wedges his fingers in the back until he's got a whole palm full of Auston's ass, and it's almost comical how that seems to settle him, like it's all he was hoping for in this whole thing.

Auston feels a surge of proprietary fondness, giving into it and dropping more of his weight down, crushing Mitch into the soft matress and sliding a thigh between Mitch's legs, rolling his hips the way he always does when he's fucking someone and he wants them to feel it, wants them to come and then thank him for it. It'd be better if he were _in_ Mitch, if he could just-

Mitch twists, high, nearly panicked near-whine tearing from his throat, reverberating through Auston's mouth where they're breathing close together, "I'm gonna- sorry, sorry-" Mitch pants, fingers flexing on Auston's skin and just feeling, taking everything in and overloading on it.

"It's fine, it's fine," Auston chants, nearly single-minded in his focus on getting Mitch off. He wants to know what it'll feel like, what Mitch will do after, if he'll still look at Auston the same way- too much, all the time. 

It's gratifying, how quick it is. With his mouth on Mitch's neck, Auston can feel Mitch's pulse stutter in time with his hands on Auston's body, and his breath pauses before rushing out in an exhale that seems to nearly empty him. He sinks into the mattress, boneless, and Auston allows himself to feel smug about it. 

Like a key in a lock, like floodgates bursting, like magic, the button of the jorts open with a tiny, audible  _pop_.

Auston freezes, pulled forcefully out of the strange, indulgent thoughts he'd been having about the thin, blueish skin beneath Mitch's closed eyes. 

"Mitch," Auston says, with what he feels is an impressively even tone. "Where the fuck did you get these stupid jorts."

* * *

 

Mitch pulls up the Etsy store at Auston’s request-slash-demand, and Auston, if he weren’t still so physically tired he wanted to die a little, would probably tear the phone from Mitch’s hand and throw it at his head.

“What the fuck did you think cursed jorts meant, Mitch?” Auston hisses, his throat still raw despite the four Gatorades he’s chugged at Mitch’s insistence.

Mitch has blanched, pale and nervous as he frantically scrolls through the product description. “I thought it was like a brand name,” he mumbles, eye scanning rapidly back and forth over the writing. As if he can actually read that fucking fast.

There’s another knock on the apartment door, much louder, and no use guessing who it is because Willie’s, “Suuuuuuup bitchesssss,” carries pretty fucking well a moment later when he lets himself in.

Mitch still looks nervous and vaguely ill, but Auston just grumbles and shoves at his shoulder. He mumbles, "Idiot," and ruffles Mitch's hair, because he's not forgiven by a fucking long shot, but Auston likes him anyway, somehow. Doesn't mean he's not an idiot.

Willie appears in the bedroom doorway, looking only vaguely suspicious of Mitch and Auston huddled together in Auston's bed. "We're going to be late for practice," he says, breezing through Auston's room towards the en suite like he owns the fucking place. "Gonna use your bathroom, cool, thanks, bye."

Auston rolls his eyes and pushes the covers off, getting dressed and listening to Mitch shuffle around uncomfortably behind him.

"It's fine," Auston says to his closet, even though it isn't really. "Just don't buy me weird shit off Etsy anymore."

Mitch snorts. "Done."

The toilet flushes in the bathroom as Auston pulls his Under Armour over his head, and he doesn't think anything of it. He feels pretty good, actually, until Willie yells, "Oh, sweet jorts!" from the bathroom, and Auston and Mitch look up at the same time, eyes finding each other across the bedroom.

 _Willie wouldn't,_ Auston thinks, and he sees the moment he and Mitch sync up and both think, _except for how he completely fucking would._

They both shout, "Willie!" just in time for the bathroom door to open, Willie standing proudly in the doorway, jorts on.

 _Well_ , Auston thinks, looking back at the half-amused, half-panicked expression on Mitch's face, _fuck_.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
